his chair and spoke a few words to
him, holding him by the arm. The old friar slowly lowered himself to his
knees, bent and kissed Urban's ring.

Fra Tomasso called for silence, and Urban rose and blessed the assembly.
Simon fell to his knees and crossed himself, thinking, _If I stay here
very long, I shall get enough of these papal blessings to absolve me
from punishment for a lifetime of sin._

Accompanied by d'Aquino and a phalanx of priests, the Holy Father left
the hall by the side door. The arguments in the hall grew louder.

As he rose to his feet, Simon saw de Verceuil hurrying toward the front
door, his small mouth tight with anger. A protective impulse made Simon
look about for Friar Mathieu.

There he was, at the center of a small group of friars. Simon started
toward him.

A figure blocked his way.

Even though he touched nothing palpable, he stopped as suddenly as if he
had run into a wall. And the face he was looking into was hard as
granite, eyes alight with the icy glow of diamonds. And yet it was not a
cold face. There was something burning deep inside there, a fire this
man kept hidden most of the time. That fire, Simon felt, could destroy
anything in its path if allowed to blaze forth.

David of Trebizond was silent, but as clearly as if he had spoken, Simon
heard a voice say, _I know you, and you are my enemy. Beware._ Simon
realized that David had intended to meet him like this, intended Simon
to seek the unspoken threat in his eyes.

_He is trying to frighten me_, Simon thought, and was angered. He held
his arm still, but he knew that if his sword had been buckled at his
side, nothing could have stopped him from reaching for it.

Simon looked the broad-shouldered man up and down, taking his measure.
David, half a head shorter than Simon, stood relaxed but imposing, his
hands hanging at his sides. That a man could appear at once so composed
and so challenging was unique.

_This man is no trader. It is not just an accident that he has come here
to speak against the alliance._

_Who and what is he--really?_

Simon drew in a deep breath and said in gruff Italian, "Let me pass,
Messere."

Slowly, almost insolently, David drew aside. "Forgive me, Your Signory.
I was studying your face." He spoke Italian with a strange accent. "I
thought I might have seen you a long time ago. But that is not possible,
because a long time ago you would have been a child."

_What does that mean? Is he tryi